


I'll Always Stay

by Bette22



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29309922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bette22/pseuds/Bette22
Summary: When a hunt goes awry, Geralt finds himself charged with saving his bard's life--and possibly falling for him in the process. Music saves the day, in more ways than one.Readers be warned: it's hurt/comfort all the way down, with a little dose of fluff at the end.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70





	I'll Always Stay

**Author's Note:**

> *Peeks out nervously*
> 
> Hello! 
> 
> Long time reader, first time poster; I finally caught up to The Witcher craze when I watched the show this past December and fell in love with these two idiots (I also absolutely adore Yennefer, but that's a story for another time). This story takes place a few weeks after episode 5, but it's definitely canon divergent from thereon out. This story is exclusively based on show lore (and a bit of DnD); I haven't played the games, and I'm stilling waiting for my copy of The Last Wish to arrive. :)  
> Please read and enjoy!

The act of falling in love is a tricky, testy thing. For some, love comes easily; a waltz they were born to dance with their one and only. They are the lucky ones. For the rest, love is a battle; a seemingly endless slog along a path sullied by heartache and strife. As one can imagine, the longer one travels, the less inclined they are to romance, to friendship, to love. After all, there’s only so many times your heart can break before you start to lose track of the pieces. In this, the infamous Geralt of Rivia is no exception; he has traveled the paths, both of body and heart, longer than most of his human companions. He believes he needs no one, and he wants to believe that no one needs him. Unfortunately for Geralt, the day he met the bumbling bard in Posada was the day his fate changed, forever. 

Of course, it wasn’t love at first sight; Jaskier was chatty in an irritating sort of way, and Geralt found himself yearning for the days he’d spent alone. Nevertheless, with time their bond grew, and in spite of themselves, the two developed a close friendship. A friendship with the potential for something more. Jaskier realizes this first, but keeps his feelings to himself, or, as to himself as he is able. 

It takes Geralt, admittedly, quite a bit longer. 

He takes a few detours, lusting of many, loving of few-- in particular, a brilliant and beautiful mage captures his eye, his mind, and his fate. However, she never captures his heart. For that, he'll soon realize, belongs to Jaskier. Only to Jaskier. 

And music is the key. 

It all begins one fine autumn evening, the evening Geralt and Jaskier ride into the town of Temer, just off the coast of The North Sea. Well, Geralt rides; Jaskier, his ever present companion, walks alongside, chattering endlessly about everything and nothing. They have been on the road for many days, sidetracked by a kikimore hunt with the witch, Yennefer, in which the trio had escaped with their lives and little else. Jaskier has been whining for days about leaving the path, and while Geralt will never admit it, the idea of a bath and a bed is overwhelmingly appealing. Temer is a small fishing village, little more than a cluster of sea shanties dotting the coastline, but it has an inn with rooms to spare, and a tavern ‘simply dying for entertainment’ (Jaskier’s words). Of course, word travels quickly in tiny towns, and Geralt barely has Roach stabled when he finds himself surrounded by a group of eager villagers. 

“You’re Geralt of Rivia,” a portly gentleman steps forth, the apparent leader of the little cohort. “The White Wolf himself.” 

Geralt grunts in acknowledgement, and turns his attention to Roach. While Jaskier’s ballads have made traveling much easier for the witcher, Geralt still finds the attention excessive. The spotlight is Jaskier’s domain, not his. A witcher’s work is better done in the dark, where the monsters lurk. 

The portly man clears his throat hesitantly. “We were hoping you could help us, Witcher.” He exchanges nervous glances with the others. “Our town has developed a bit of a...pest problem.”  
Geralt stills, hands buried in Roach’s mane. With a heavy sigh, he turns to face the group. “What kind of pest?”  
The man’s eyes widen. “I-It’s nothing dreadful. A pack of wargs, maybe. Keep getting to our livestock, snatchin’ them from their pens in the dead of night, taking ‘em out to the forest west of town.” 

Geralt says nothing.

“We could pay you...handsomely,” the man offers, somewhat reluctantly. 

The witcher hums at this, fingers continuing to comb Roach’s mane. Finally, he nods, and a sigh of relief ripples the crowd. 

“I’ll head out at first light,” he says. 

At this, the man shakes his head. “With all due respect, these monsters are feeding at night. One more, and who knows how many more animals could be carried off? That’s our livelihood.” With a sudden surge of courage he steps forward, until he and Geralt are face to face, his eyes squinting in suspicion. “We’ve promised you payment; why the hesitation, witcher? Surely wargs are no match for a man of your...expertise.” The man’s voice trails along the last word, laced with disgust and the hint of a challenge. 

Geralt bristles. Although he would prefer a good night’s rest first, dealing with the warg pack this evening is a challenge he does not mind. This man’s hostility, however, is another matter entirely. Before he can tell the man, in no uncertain terms, that he will handle their problem on his own time, a new voice joins the conversation. 

“Now, now, gentleman, there’s no need for your petty squabbles.” Jaskier enters the stables, strolling through the thick of the crowd until he makes his way to Geralt’s side. He turns his attention to the man before Geralt, flashing him what he must believe to be a winning smile. “Good sir, I’ll have you know that the famed White Wolf will be more than happy to take care of your, what did you call it, a pest problem?, at his earliest possible convenience, which could be now, or could be tomorrow morning, depending on…”

He blabbers on, the villager's scowl deepening with every word. Geralt sighs. Leave it to Jaskier to complicate even the simplest of conflicts. With a click of his tongue, he gives Roach’s reins a gentle tug, leading her out into the stable. 

“I’ll be leaving now,” he tells the crowd gruffly. “You’ll have your wargs by first light.”  


The tension visibly dissipates, and the angry man sucks in a sharp breath, nodding. “We’ll be expecting you.” 

At this, the townspeople disperse, returning to their various occupations, until only Jaskier and Geralt remain. Geralt shoots the bard a frustrated glare, and Jaskier squirms. 

“It’s not my fault that these people are immune to my charm,” he says defensively. “I was only trying to help.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes. As if anything the bard has said is helpful. Jaskier is a man of very many words, and very little substance. Brilliant at charming his way into bed, Jaskier is the king of his little domain, and an absolute flounder everywhere else.

“Just try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone,” he mutters, leading Roach to the edge of the stable and into the village. He has only gone a few steps before he hears the crunch of feet upon the fallen leaves, and he turns to find Jaskier standing sheepishly behind him. 

“I thought I’d tag along, this time,” the bard says cheerily. “Nothing like a late night monster hunt to get the blood flowing, am I right?” 

Geralt raises an eyebrow, curious. Although Jaskier has always been a bit clingy, these past few months, ever since the incident with the djinn, Jaskier has been practically attached to Geralt’s hip, staying away for no longer than it took to perform. Geralt has written it off as boredom, or wanderlust--the path is a lonely road to tread, and Geralt’s company must seem preferable to no company at all. But here, in a town with a tavern full of people to perform for, Jaskier’s insistence at accompaniment is a bit strange, if not a bit troubling. Geralt’s stomach lurches with the revelation that he is, inexplicably, concerned for the bard. He returns his attention to the man standing before him, who, in this silence, has already begun to chatter on about broadening his own ‘monster repertoire.’ 

Geralt hmms softly, and Jaskier pauses, face open and eager. “You’ll have to keep your distance,” he finally says. “Whatever material you need for your song will be gotten from me later. Understood?” 

Jaskier beams. “I had a feeling you’d say that; a pack of wargs shouldn’t be too terribly difficult, but you just never know when inspiration is going to stri--Geralt, wait up!” 

The ride to the forest is relatively uneventful; soon tired of talking, Jaskier switches to working on his newest ballad, strumming his lute and humming as they walk. It’s a piece he’s been working on for a while, short in length and bittersweet in tune, a far cry from the lively little ballads he normally writes.  


He told Geralt about it, when he first started composing so many days ago, but the words have since been lost to memory. If one were to recall every word uttered by Jaskier, they would be able to fill a library a dozen times over. Nevertheless, as Geralt listens, something stirs in his brain. This song feels different somehow, important. He wonders what it could be. He wonders why he cares. 

Thankfully, the pair reach the edge of the forest before Geralt has too much time to reflect, and he quickly dismounts, tying Roach to the trunk of a nearby tree. 

“You should be safe enough here,” he tells Jaskier. “Just keep quiet and don’t stray too far from Roach.” 

He turns to the horse. “You’re in charge.”

The smallest of grins briefly flits his face as he hears Jaskier’s yelp of protest from behind him, and he walks further on, senses keen for any sign of Warg activity. The night is eerily quiet, the small hiss of air through his nostrils the only audible sound. 

Something isn’t right. 

An odd sensation pricks the back of Geralt’s neck, and he has the sudden (and forceful) intuition that he is not alone, and that his companion is keeping watch. 

Tracking. 

Hunting. 

Silently, Geralt draws his silver sword from the sheath on his back, eyes scanning the treeline before him. He is sure of little in this outing, but one thing is certain: the creature is not a warg. As if on cue a giant, winged beast drops from the sky, talons outstretched, and Geralt throws himself to the forest floor, the claws barely grazing his back. 

A vargouille. Fuck. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Geralt races towards the creature, weapon at the ready. His sword sings as it flies through the air, piercing the vargouilles’s skin with a sickening lurch. The creature rears back, screaming in agony, and its eyes darken, gaze intensely focused upon its attacker. The scream morphs to a roar, and the creature charges, giving Geralt only a moment to roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the sharp claws that slice the air above his head. 

The battle wages on like this for quite some time, both opponents sinking blows and dodging others, neither willing to give an inch, and, more discouragingly, neither close to defeat. 

Then, as suddenly as it began, the fighting stops. Geralt, rising to his feet, finds his opponent within striking distance from his face and completely still. It senses something, another presence perhaps, and Geralt chooses to take advantage of the moment, launching himself at the beast and driving his sword right through the meat of its neck. The vargouille lets out a garbled cry as sticky, black blood oozes from the wound. It begins to shake violently, sending Geralt flying into a tree trunk a dozen yards away. With a blurred gaze, Geralt watches as the beast suddenly takes off, thundering through the forest. 

It has found a new victim. 

A pit forms in Geralt’s stomach, and he tries to reassure himself that the bard was too far away to be tracked, and certainly not stupid enough to venture closer for the sake of his muse. Then again…

Geralt takes off running, his heart hammering in his chest as he mentally wills Jaskier to stay with Roach, to be far away from this beast, to be safe. But when is Jaskier ever safe? His prayers prove ineffective, for the moment Geralt catches up to the vargouille, his stomach drops at the sight of the beast towering over Jaskier, keeping him pinned to the ground beneath its claws. The vargouille slashes at the bard’s legs, and Jaskier’s screams, sadly familiar, rattle the witcher to his core. In one fluid motion, Geralt leaps atop the creature’s back, clenching the hilt of his sword, still firmly entrenched in the beast’s skin, and pulls, the force of his efforts thrusting the sword through the other end of the beast’s neck and dropping the head to the ground below. The decapitated body collapses with a dull thud, and Geralt retrieves his now bloodied sword before hastening to Jaskier’s side. 

The bard is huddled against the base of a nearby tree, hands stained with the blood gushing from the wounds on his thigh he attempts to suppress, a series of long, seemingly deep gashes extending from his hip to his ankle. As Geralt approaches, he looks up, blue eyes wide with panic. 

“I know you told me to stay put, but you were gone for so long, I thought--well, I wondered, if you were alright, if you needed any help.” A pang of guilt wrenches Geralt’s chest as he recalls the many, many times in which that had in fact been the case, and Jaskier had been there to pick up the pieces. Jaskier is a fool, but a well-meaning one, sometimes. 

Gently, Geralt removes Jaskier’s hands from the wounds, in an attempt to get a closer look. The gashes are not as deep as he had originally thought, though they are long and violently bloody. What truly concerns Geralt, however, are the faint green veins emerging from the cuts and threading Jaskier’s legs. 

Poison. 

The vargouille often enjoyed consuming their prey post-mortem, and utilized a slow type of toxin to inebriate and eventually kill their targets. One dose could kill a woodland animal within a few hours; a human, Geralt guesses, no more than a day. Jaskier needs medical attention immediately. 

“Can you stand?” He asks, and Jaskier wordlessly nods, grimacing as Geralt grabs him under the arms and hoists him to his feet. The two awkwardly hobble back to Roach, Geralt actively resisting the urge to throw Jaskier over his shoulder, for fear of further aggravating his injuries. By the time they reach the clearing the adrenaline seems to have faded, and Jaskier nearly collapses at Roach’s side as Geralt sets him down, returning to his saddle bags for the bandages and ointment. He knows Jaskier’s life hangs in the balance, but he refuses to add a bout of infection to the mix. He works in relative silence, an unfamiliar (and unsettling) experience that has him snatching frequent glances at Jaskier’s face. Unfortunately, Jaskier appears barely lucid, his eyes half-lidded, and his breaths short and sharp through his nose. 

As Geralt wraps the last bandage, he grunts. “This should help,” he says awkwardly, and Jaskier’s eyes snap open, murky with pain but seemingly aware. He nods.  


Geralt takes this as his cue, and again hoists Jaskier to his feet, steadying him against Roach while he mounts, and then pulling Jaskier into the seat in front of him. Jaskier’s head turns slowly to face him, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Don’t get used to it,” Geralt warns. “The moment you can stand again is the moment you’re back on the road.” 

Although it is difficult to tell with the wind rushing at their faces, Geralt is sure he hears a faint huff of laughter, and his chest unclenches, just a little. With a click of the reins, they take off into the night. 

The town is only a few hours east of the forest, but by the time they reach the inn, Jaskier’s condition has only worsened. He lies hunched over Roach’s back, his skin hot to the touch with the first breath of fever. Geralt leads them into the stable and hastily dismounts, dragging Jaskier, barely conscious, alongside him into the inn.  


It takes quite a bit of finagling, but Geralt manages to half drag, half carry Jaskier up the stairs and through the door to their room. He rolls Jaskier onto the bed, helping to remove his bloodied outerwear as the bard stirs and blinks blearily up at him. 

“Stay here,” he orders, immediately feeling foolish. Jaskier can’t even stand on his own; where the hell would he go? In response the bard raises his head and mutters something unintelligible (possibly a ‘thank you,’ but more likely a ‘fuck you’--Jaskier is nothing if not a crabby sleeper) before falling back against the pillow. Geralt makes his exit, charging down the stairs and into the tavern. 

“I need a physician,” he growls at the man at the bar. “Is there one nearby?”

The man tilts his head in the direction of the far corner of the tavern, where a small group of men are engaged in a game of gwent. “Stroid’s the only game in town. Best be careful though; he hates being disturbed on card night.” 

Geralt grunts and makes his way to the card table, where the men, once lively, quickly fall silent. 

“Is there a Stroid here?” He asks. 

Five faces turn to the man at the back end of the table, studying his cards with sudden intensity. 

“Who’s asking,” the man says flatly. 

Geralt sighs. He doesn’t have time for this. “You’re a physician, and I need your help. My-” a beat, as Geralt’s mind struggles to define Jaskier. “My friend has been poisoned by a vargouille. He doesn’t have long, and I can pay you for your services.” 

The room swells in pregnant pause as Geralt watches the man, Stroid, study his hand, while the rest of the tavern studies Geralt. Finally, Stroid sets down his cards. 

“You sure it was a vargouille?” he asks. “They’re not exactly common in these parts.”

Geralt nods. “Killed it myself. This town’s ‘pest’ problem was a little more than a pest.”

With a sigh, Stroid takes a long swig of ale, grasps the small, black bag seated at the foot of his chair, and rises. “Show me.” 

By the time Geralt and Stroid return to the room, Jaskier is sitting up, and positively gleeful at the sight.

“Geralt! You didn’t leave, you scamp!” His voice is frighteningly chipper, and upon closer inspection Geralt notes the haze clouding the bard’s bright eyes. He’s delirious. Nevertheless, his words echo in Geralt’s ears: you didn’t leave. 

Did Jaskier expect him to? 

He watches as Stroid makes his way to Jaskier’s side, peeling back the bandages to study the wounds. He hems and haws for what feels like hours (though is only a minute or so) before beginning to rummage through his bag. 

“You can help him?” 

The doctor straightens, holding a small vial of clear liquid that twinkles in the firelight. “I can give him something for the pain.” 

Returning to Jaskier’s side, he cups his head and helps him swallow the strange concoction. The bard grimaces at what appears to be an unpleasant taste, before his eyes flutter shut and he’s dead to the world. 

The doctor turns to Geralt. “The vargouille’s poison has already spread throughout his system; he’s fighting off the fever as we speak. It’s bound to get worse before it gets better, but I’m afraid there’s not much medicine can do to fight it off. It’ll be up to your friend here to pull through.” He retrieves his bag from the floor. “Just try to keep him comfortable, and fight his fever as best you can. I’ll check up on him first thing in the morning.” 

Geralt clears his throat. “I...thank you. I can pay you first thing tomorrow.”

The doctor puts up a hand. “No need. You killed the monster; your friend here is proof of that. That hellion has been terrorizing this town for weeks. We owe you a debt of gratitude, witcher.” 

He smiles at Geralt before making his exit, and suddenly, Geralt and Jaskier are alone. 

Strangely uncomfortable, Geralt edges closer to the bed. Jaskier is quiet and still, lost in the throes of drug-induced slumber; his skin is ashen and sticky with sweat, the fever still burning brightly within him. It is not unlike the time with the djinn; Geralt’s heart skips at the recollection of Jaskier, again, lying so still on a bed, Yennefer’s barbed reassurances like knives to his gut. It was the first time he had felt such fear, for Jaskier, for himself. Jaskier, for all his obnoxious prattling and preening, is a constant; a presence, once hated, that Geralt now finds himself missing terribly. The realization discomforts him, and he turns his attention back to the sleeping bard, retrieving a soaking cloth from the nearby basin and gently pressing it to Jaskier’s burning forehead. The bard lets out a low moan, the coolness of the cloth visibly easing the tension in his face. Once he’s settled, Geralt takes a seat in the lone chair beside the bed, his chin in his hands. The only thing left to do now is wait. 

A couple of hours pass; Jaskier does not stir, and Geralt attempts to meditate, ‘attempt’ being the appropriate word, as his body snaps to attention with every creak and whistle in the room’s worn wooden walls. He finally settles into what he believes to be a comfortable rhythm when there’s a squeak in the bed frame. Geralt opens his eyes to find himself locked in gaze with a pair of bright blues, murky with sleep. Instantly, he is on his feet and towering over the bed, studying Jaskier intensely. 

Jaskier smiles, tries to say something, but the words seem to catch in his throat, and he quiets with a huff. His skin still smells of fever, but he’s surprisingly lucid. He points to this throat, and Geralt realizes with a flash of guilt that Jaskier must be thirsty. The witcher grabs a mug of water from the side table and holds it to Jaskier’s lips, allowing him to drink until he starts to choke. As he pulls away, Jaskier lets out a small whine of protest, an action so familiar, so Jaskier, that Geralt can’t hide his smile. 

“Don’t want to overdo it--you’re still feverish.” A pause. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Jaskier admits, blinking furiously. “What happened?”

Geralt’s insides twist as the memory of Jaskier’s screams, fresh and raw, rings in his ears. “The hunt...it wasn’t wargs,” he says. “It was a vargouille. It spotted you and attacked.” 

Jaskier nods. “I kind of remember that, I think. It’s all kind of blurry and dreamlike, you know? Like I can’t quite make it out…” he trails off, and starts to shiver. “Gods it’s cold in here.” 

The room is practically stifling, but Geralt retrieves the blanket from the foot of the bed and draws it closer to Jaskier’s chest.  


“You should sleep,” he grunts. “We can talk later.”

Jaskier, eyes already fluttering closed, furrows his brow. “You’re staying then?”

This is the second time that Jaskier has mentioned this, as if he expects Geralt to leave him here, alone. Geralt’s heart twists, but to Jaskier he hums affirmatively. 

The bard smiles sleepily at him. “Thank you, Geralt,” he murmurs, as sleep yet again claims him. 

Geralt watches his sleeping form for a moment, oddly comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest. He sighs. “You’re welcome, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier does not wake for the rest of the night, but his sleep is far from the peaceful sleep of earlier. His fever only climbs, and with it his restlessness as he thrashes violently, throwing away the blankets in flashes of heat before yet again shivering so forcefully his teeth rattle. Geralt is vigilant; pulling back the blankets and applying cold compresses time and time again, but to little effect. In true Jaskier fashion, with fever comes delirium; he begins to talk, mostly garbled gibberish, but also calls out, in fear, for Geralt. Only for Geralt. 

“I’m here, Jaskier,” Geralt tells him, over and over, but his words fall on deaf ears, and the cries only grow more frequent and frantic. After a particularly bad stretch, as Geralt returns to the basin to cool his cloth, he begins to hum. This surprises him; Geralt has never been musically inclined. But he’s had Jaskier’s earlier tune caught in his head all day, and the rhythm, soft and smooth, steadies his heart, helping him focus. When he returns to Jaskier’s side, the bard has quieted; his head turned to the side, ever so slightly, a soft smile on his lips. 

The humming. Could it be helping? 

Geralt hums a bit louder, watching in awe as the creases of Jaskier’s face smooth. Save for the veins, ugly green things now tracing his neck and arms, Jaskier appears to be at peace, as if he has simply fallen asleep. For the first time in many hours, Geralt sits heavily in the bedside chair, humming all the while, and Jaskier’s words about the song suddenly return to his mind. 

A week prior, Geralt and Jaskier had been on the path when they’d run into Yennefer, although the meeting had been far from coincidental. Geralt had sensed her nearby; he’d been curious. They found her in the forest, searching for a woman in possession of something of great personal interest. Geralt had volunteered their assistance, and shortly thereafter they’d found the woman, or what had been left of her. A kikimore attack. Geralt had quickly vanquished the beast, and Yennefer had been on her way, certain they’d meet again. Geralt (and a very hostile Jaskier) had continued on, and it was in the days that followed that Jaskier began to compose the song. 

“It’s a bit different from my normal style,” he had told Geralt one morning. “A little more...personal, if you will.”

Geralt had hmmed at this. He found Jaskier’s songs to be all style and little substance, a thought he had (foolishly) expressed to Jaskier after a bout of particularly difficult insomnia. Jaskier had been greatly offended then, of course (he never wasted an opportunity for dramatics) but even Geralt noticed the subtle changes in this newer song, not a tale of triumphant conquest, but a song of love, of longing, of heartbreak and redemption. Geralt had wondered for whom Jaskier’s affections seemed to spurn; he had been spending more time at Geralt’s side than ever, nary a woman in sight. Who could have truly caused this much emotion? 

“I’d like this song to be one that everyone can relate to,” Jaskier had continued talking, undeterred, as usual, by Geralt’s silence. “I think everyone’s wanted something they couldn’t have.” His voice grew quiet, thoughtful. “Even you, Geralt.” 

“I need no one,” he told Jaskier, as he had many times before, expecting Jaskier to rebuff his rebuke with a joke, or perhaps more chatter. Instead, Jaskier had nodded, mouth turned in the smallest of frowns. 

“I’m not sure that’s true anymore,” he had said, almost bitterly, before returning to his strumming and strutting, as though nothing had happened. It had left Geralt confused, then, he'd tucked the words away in the back of his mind, written as off as yet another strange conversation with Jaskier. 

But now, it felt as though the pieces were slowly, painfully, falling into place. 

It’s a song about love, about longing, the story of losing one’s heart to another and having to watch as they walk away, time and time again. The song is sad, but not bitter. The narrator seems to understand; his situation is complicated, and his lover’s heart may belong to another. And yet, he still hopes for a day when his lover will return to him, to be his. 

As if hearing it for the first time, Geralt stirs uncomfortably at the intensity of emotion woven through the ballad. 

This is Jaskier’s song to him. 

For him. 

About him? 

It is as though the world snaps into place: Jaskier’s clinginess, his ballad, his jealousy of...Yennefer? She is the woman Jaskier believes himself to be losing his love, Geralt, to, and Geralt can’t help but ponder the truth of his bard’s sentiments. Yennefer and Geralt’s fates are...complicated, to say the least, a potent combination of destiny and lust that makes their interactions passionate, intoxicating. Yennefer is fire; bright and bold but also dangerous, someone you couldn’t hold for long lest you wanted to burn. Nothing tangible, nothing permanent. Nothing like Jaskier. 

The bard’s restlessness snaps him from his reverie, and he realizes that, in his surprise, he has stopped humming. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier cries, brows furrowed in sweat and pain. “Geralt, please, don’t leave me.” 

Quietly, Geralt begins to hum, slow and steady, until he can see the tension ebbing on Jaskier’s forehead. He reaches out across the bed and clutches one of Jaskier’s warm hands in his, squeezing it softly. 

He doesn’t know if Jaskier will remember this moment when he wakes; he’s not sure if he cares. At this moment, they are safe--Jaskier is safe, with him. And that is enough. 

The fever breaks just before dawn, the bright green veins fading to purple as Jaskier once again returns to an easy sleep. Geralt feels as though he can finally breathe again. 

True to his word, the doctor returns, quite pleased with Jaskier’s condition.

“Seems he’s kicked the worst of it,” he tells Geralt pleasantly. “He should wake soon.”

He leaves Geralt with instructions to encourage Jaskier continued rest, as well a stern admonishment regarding Geralt’s own rest, of lack thereof. Geralt promises to sleep as soon as Jaskier is well; as a witcher, he reminds the doctor, he doesn’t need to sleep the way regular humans do. Nevertheless, the many long days and sleepless nights of the path, paired with the activity of the night before are starting to catch him, and it’s not long before Geralt falls into a doze, one hand pillowing his head on the side of the bed, the other still entwined with Jaskier’s. 

Consciousness returns to Geralt slowly, drifting by on the notes of a song: short, bittersweet, and dreadfully familiar...Jaskier’s song. 

Someone is humming Jaskier’s song. 

Geralt bolts upright with a grunt, finding himself face to face with the blue-eyed bard himself. Jaskier is propped up with pillows and positively glowing, his eyes clear for the first time all night. 

Upon seeing Geralt’s alarm, he grimaces apologetically. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he admits. “I just woke up and you were here and sleeping, and I tried to be quiet but this damn song is absolutely stuck in my head--Geralt, why are you smiling?”

Geralt can only shake his head. “What-what do you remember?”

“About last night?” Jaskier frowns. “Not much, honestly--I believe you were hunting something, a pack of wargs, or some such creatures. I suppose I came along too…” His nose crinkles. “You were--humming?”

At this Geralt snorts, and now it’s Jaskier’s turn to look alarmed. Before Geralt can explain, however, he notes a peculiar warmth around his left hand, and his eyes drop to the bedspread. Two hands lie there, intertwined. 

“Yes, well, I noticed that too, you see,” Jaskier blabbers on nervously, eyes darting from their hands to Geralt and back again. “I-I wasn’t quite sure how it came about but I really didn’t want to wake you, and I didn’t know if you, you know, meant to.” His face flushes a furious shade of pink and he promptly snaps his mouth shut, as if to keep the words from spewing out. 

In response, Geralt slowly withdraws his hand, feeling the burn of Jaskier’s anxious gaze upon him. A million different words, things he’d like to say, fly through his mind, so twisted and tangled he doesn’t know where to begin, or even if he should begin at all. 

“The song,” he grits out at long last. “Who is the song about, Jaskier?” 

The bard looks at him confusedly. “Well you’ll have to be more specific, Geralt, I’ve written so many memorable ballads--some about you, or the countess, or--”

“The song you were humming earlier. You played it for me, days ago; you said it was personal. I hummed it to you last night, and it seemed to calm you. Who did you write it for?” 

There is a beat; Jaskier blinking rapidly, as if unsure what to say. “Well, um, Geralt,” he stammers. “I wrote that one about...you.”

Geralt hums. 

“But I never thought you’d find out; gods above, I didn’t even figure you listened to my songs anymore, because we all know that no one who truly appreciates music would call my singing anything akin to a fillingless pie--” 

Jaskier’s cascade of words is brought to a dramatic halt as Geralt plants a kiss, short and sweet, upon his lips. When he pulls back, they’re both breathless, Jaskier’s mouth snapping open and closed like a fish. 

“W-what was that for?” He breathes. 

Geralt shrugs. “To show you I like the song.”

“You like the song?” Jaskier’s voice wavers with incredulity. “Geralt of Rivia, if that’s all I had to do to get your attention I would have done it months ago, especially after that dreadful Yennefer--wait, where are you going?” 

Over the course of Jaskier’s latest diatribe Geralt has quietly collected his things, and is currently standing at the door. 

“I left the monster head--a vargouille, by the way--in the woods,” he explains. “I’ll need to retrieve it so we can pay the innkeep for our stay. We’ll be here a few days at least.” 

Jaskier studies his hands, suddenly shy. “So you are staying?” His voice is soft and hopeful. 

For once, Geralt knows exactly what to say. 

“I’ll always stay, Jaskier.”

The bard nods, and although his head is down, Geralt can tell he is beaming. “Get some rest,” he tells him, not unkindly. “I’ll return soon.” 

“Yes mother,” Jaskier mutters, but he’s already sinking back into the pillows. 

Geralt watches for a moment longer, until he’s sure that Jaskier is asleep, before he pulls the door shut behind him and retreats down the stairs, absently humming his new favorite tune.


End file.
